The Duration by Dave Fromm
Author:Dave Fromm
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: F+W Media
Published: 2016-04-01T07:00:00+00:00
In the morning I brushed and picked my teeth with an obsidian courtesy toothbrush and scalded myself under the torrential showerhead. I used the courtesy lavender-thyme shampoo and conditioner and the courtesy oatmeal body scrub. I shaved and rubbed pink courtesy Rhinebeck lotion onto my skin. I padded around in a thick robe and thick slippers and felt moisturized in the best ways.
At 7:45, the double doors of the master bedroom were still closed. I eased them apart a hands-width and looked in on a bed the diameter of which exceeded my view. Jimmer lay surrounded by pillows, a mask over his eyes, a meringue of duvet enveloping his lower half.
“Yo,” I said.
He lifted his head slightly, did not remove the mask.
“We have to be at Welcoming in fifteen minutes.”
Jimmer put his head back down and pulled the duvet cover up to his chin. “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.”
Could that be true? It sounded sort of revolutionary.
All I had to wear were my work clothes from Friday, a blue pinstripe suit and a smelly white shirt, but in the hall closet I found two sets of Head-Connect sweat clothes, one in earthen brown and one in vanilla. Pants, shorts, pullovers, and T-shirts, each emblazoned with a stylized evergreen. One set fit me nearly perfectly. On the floor of the closet were two pairs of bespoke cross-trainers, each stuffed with monogrammed socks. All that from a palm print?
I suited up and headed out.
I passed through the lobby and cut across the rotary to the Fleur-de-Lys mansion proper. The morning sky was pale and cold, but the sweatshirt was thicker than it seemed and had a cavernous hood. The material felt like a sort of elfin technology, magical, like those innocuous little flatbreads that sustained Frodo et al. on the march to Mordor. Eight or nine other people were crossing to the main building, all hooded against the chill, our outfits suggesting the start of some sort of conclave.
In the entryway of the main building, a big man with olive skin stood behind a wheeled cart, handing out coffee and juice. I took both. We were a baker’s dozen in all, four corporate types yawning and slouching, three slender Asian men whispering in Cantonese, a minor movie star recently busted for drunk driving, what looked like a well-heeled mother-daughter pair, the luminous Vishy Shetty, an assistant who looked like a non–hi def version of Vishy Shetty, and me.
Ava Winston stood inconspicuously off to the side, a tablet under her arm. I felt bad about sort of lying to her, and caught her eye in an attempt to incept some sort of bonhomie. She was too busy taking attendance to care.
“Jimmer?” she mouthed at me, gesturing subtly around the room.
I shrugged, folded my hands to the side of my face.
Ava frowned and made a note on her tablet.
The entry foyer of the mansion was open and octagonal and seemed faithfully restored, at least based on the pictures we’d seen so long ago in Florence Banish’s files.
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Dark Humor | Humorous |
Satire |
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